Cage
by blaineboughtcheesecake
Summary: Decree #56: In all cities, one child will be deemed as the most attractive. This child will be put on display in a large cage, serving as an educational tool for children. This will prevent insecurity and stereotyping among age groups, while also improving future generations' perception of self-image.
1. Chapter 1

**CAGE **_  
_

_Burt Hummel was a good man. He loved his wife with his entire being, as much as he possibly could. He loved her so much, he'd move across the country to be with her. He'd even break the law for her. He'd hide for her. He'd bring life into this otherwise lifeless world with her; he'd have a son named Kurt. _

_The hospital walls were stark and completely colorless in comparison to Kurt's wide eyes. They were bright blue, but Burt knew that was probably the early baby stage. There were little tufts of brown hair, sheer and soft. The boy looked at him through dazzlingly long eyelashes. Burt could only think one thing, and that was how beautiful this baby was. _

_He felt shame for thinking it. It was good to be ugly. It was safe. And here Burt was, thinking something horrid about his little Kurt. But beautiful was the only word. Burt's vocabulary was reduced to that one word, and now Burt was repeating it like a mantra in his mind. _

_He knew in that instant, that he would do everything in his power to protect Kurt from everything that could possibly hurt him, even if that thing was Kurt himself. Nothing would hurt his baby, his son. _

The fear was like a leech, attaching itself to his mind and sucking each thought with vengeance. With each breath of air, Kurt could feel the leech inject him with yet another dose of terror, and only terror. It was the same terror that coursed through his veins like blood, pumped in his heart, circulated his brain, and rejuvenated the muscles in his legs so he was running with every ounce of adrenaline in his system. He ran away, the lockers creating a blurry red in his peripheral vision, the same red that encompassed his mind. The red, the lockers, the school, and all of its inhabitants were leaches, and Kurt feared he was becoming one himself.

He pumped his legs in awkward angles to run faster. Kurt felt as if the locker room was getting closer and closer the farther Kurt ran, chasing him with the smell of sweat and jockstraps that lingered ominously. _He_was there, rancid like the memories that were more frightening than the locker room itself. The memories that had been engraved into his mind, copied and pasted into his brain's hard drive.

When Kurt ran past the school doors and out of the school property completely, he kept going, still trying to swallow down the frightening thought that Karofsky was chasing him. And if Karofsky was chasing him, the entire school might be as well. None of it was bearable. All of it was faster than him. He couldn't outrun them if he tried, especially with the throbbing in his legs that numbed his lower half second by second. He didn't really mind the pain, however. The sharp pangs up his legs masked the pounding in his head that had nothing to do with running.

Kurt stopped abruptly at the Woodhull Bridge that connected Downtown Lima to the edge of Pierpont Street, or the location of William McKinley High School. Kurt gasped for air, realizing his subconscious was trying to tell him something. He could remember this bridge, how mesmerizing it had been. He hadn't thought about this bridge in while. In fact, he hadn't thought about a lot of mesmerizing things in a while. Then again, he didn't really have much reason to.

He walked hesitantly to the edge of the bridge, hardly registering the way his lungs heaved desperately for oxygen. He didn't notice how shaky he was either. Kurt was too busy thinking about gap that separated the bridge from the murky river below- life and death teetering precariously over something as trivial as a ledge. The drop was so dangerous, so deadly. The rushing in his ears became a crescendo as he climbed so each foot was planted firmly on the bridge.

He thought about his mom and their secret, along with countless others that had smudged a huge hole in his heart. He thought about cars that crashed into each other, intoxicated drivers killing little boys' moms and mechanics' wives. He thought about their house was in Lima, not in Westerville. He thought about the kids at school and how they hated his retched beauty that stained his face so deep and dark, so vile that every time he looked in the mirror he thought about the terrible secrets he hid away in his chest. He thought about his crooked nose and how it hadn't been when was born. And finally, he thought about clammy hands latching onto his face like the leaches. He thought about the sweaty lips that magnetized towards his own in an instant, too fast to stop. The memory was acrid in the air around him, he breathed in the locker room and the red.. His lungs were filled with disgust and hate, and so was Kurt. The memory was a chill that licked up his spine, crackled his skin, and bent his stomach.

Kurt was at the point where he'd had enough. Life had gorged him with hardship, and all that was left to do was regurgitate everything out into the open. It was pounding in his brain, swishing through his arteries, turning his fingers blue with the lack of warmth and comfort. But the thought of telling anyone about the things he wouldn't even dare to think about was dreadful.

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the red, the leaches, the memories that made his foot inch towards the water below. The sounds around him were loud and intoxicating, hissing fortissimo in his ear.

It wasn't until a weak voice behind him croaked that the conch shell sounds in his ears became silent and the fear that had been painted onto his eyelids became panic.

"Please," It came again.

He swallowed back any chance of flinging himself off the bridge, calmly climbing back onto the pavement. Kurt turned slowly, not realizing the Caged Boy, his confinement just at the end of the bridge, had been watching Kurt's episode like it were that of prime time television. The flower bushes that greeted citizens into the downtown area, decrepit and dead, led the road to a right turn. Of the left, was the infamous cage that marked the home of the Caged Display, a boy in this town.

Kurt had forgotten about the Caged Boy. Not completely, but just long enough to run up to the edge of the bridge. Just long enough.

"Please don't jump," He said, looking almost ashamed as he did.

Kurt stared at the boy. He tried to look as cold and disheartening as possible. He owed this boy, this caged beauty. He was in debt, and both of them knew it.

"Why on earth would I do that?" Kurt sneered, "You're the one who should want to jump." He turned with a click of his heel, walking away from the bridge as quickly as he'd walked to it.

Kurt swallowed all the secrets down his throat and into his heart where he would hopefully never retrieve them. They weighed down his chest, heavier and heavier the farther from the boy he got. Kurt knew how close he was to being that boy, but that thought had gone down the same route his secrets had.

The only sound was the click of his shoes on the cobblestone pavement, he could still remember the day he met that caged boy. He refused to remember his name. Giving the caged boy a name would be like treating him as a person, recognizing him as something no one else did. And right now, Kurt honestly couldn't go against the crowd.

_Burt watched as the barber shredded the random streaks on Kurt's head, leaving large bald strips in Kurt's hair. He tried to ignore it when Kurt silently cried from his position in the chair, and how they fell down his cheeks and onto the tarp draped over his shoulders. _

_ Elizabeth grasped Burt's hand. He knew it was common for kids to get haircuts like this one, and usually none of them cared. Everyone wanted to have haircuts that would've been highly distasteful sixty years ago, because no one wanted to look like one of the caged. But Kurt was different. _

_ When the barber stepped back from his masterpiece, pulled of the protective cover, and spun the chair around, Kurt stood with a stony expression. He wore the same face as they paid and walked out of the shop and into the wispy February air. _

_ Burt watched as Kurt placed a hand on his hand, tracing over the bald patches. _

_ "Are you alright, sweetie?" Elizabeth asked the five year old. _

_ Kurt turned away from her, staring out of the window instead. _

_ "I'm sorry," She whispered, "But it had to be done." _

He wanted to go into the bathroom. He wanted to look at the balding patches of hair and dirt scrubbed in his face to produce acne. He wanted to see the ripped and worn clothes he was wearing. He wanted to change it. God, Kurt longed for lush hair that was perfectly groomed. He wanted clean skin, white and pure as untouched snow. His clothes should have been tailored, chic, designer.

But he knew where that would land him. He would be in that cage like the other boy, staring out at a bridge.

Kurt breathed heavy, and instead dared to think about the only secret he could: his mom.

He thought about her hands as they applied makeup and hairspray, hidden delicacies that had been stowed away underneath the sink. He could still smell the suit and jacket she would let him wear. He could hear the click of the lock, promising them that no one would find out what they were doing. He could still feel the constant worry his dad would come home.

But his dad never did come home during Kurt and his mom's secret times. They were sparse. Kurt loved feeling beautiful. His mom would whisper into his ear, pressing her lips just close enough so only the two of them could hear it even if Kurt's dad was home, that it was okay to feel beautiful. And then she would tell him to never ever let anyone see him beautiful, though, because that put you in bad places.

Kurt had to stop thinking about her. If he let one secret to resurface, another would. And then he'd be surrounded. He'd have to tell his dad, and that was the worst thing he could think of possibly doing.

That secret would lead to another one, and that one would lead to another one. Eventually, they'd spill out of his mouth as fast as the water had swished underneath the Woodhull Bridge; as fast as the ticking of a clock or the wavering of a moment. Everything about him would be on display, like the caged boy.

Speaking of, Kurt found his hands to be very sweaty when he thought about the caged boy. He tried to shoo the curly haired beauty from his mind, but like the memories, that face had been sewn into the membrane of Kurt's mind.

He gripped the railing of the steps with his right hand, ignoring the ache in his shoulder from being slammed into his locker twice today. Karofsky had been the culprit in both of these incidents, but the two had been for very different reasons. Kurt felt a shiver roll down his spine that matched the chill of what had happened, was happening, was going to happen. Permanent. Never ending.

Kurt's train of thought halted on its tracks, the sudden jolt making his stomach experiences an uncomfortable free-fall. He gripped the railing even tighter.

Inside the walls of his own room, Kurt lay down on the bed and wrapped a thick blanket as tightly around his shoulders as it would go. The material still smelled like their old house; the creek in the steps; the marigolds that lined the porch; his mother's perfume mingling with the scent of flour in the kitchen; his dad's motor-oil stained overalls. His eyes seemingly fluttered closed on their own, Kurt happy to let the mattress pull him in like quick-sand.

If Kurt could fall deeper into the comforter, he would. He'd dive right into the box spring, even. The cold air could freeze him on this bed. It probably already had.

Kurt fell asleep without realizing it.

**...**

_As the scenery flashed by like a movie, Kurt pressed his hand to the cool car window. His breath created patches of silvery condensation of the hard material. But the puffs of air were hardly Kurt's concern. The bridge was coming up. _

_ Burt glanced at his son through the rear-view mirror. Elizabeth was watching their son as intently as he was, but Burt made no comment. _

_ When the vehicle jolted upwards onto the bridge, Kurt found himself counting the seconds before he'd get to see the caged boy. It was like awaiting a movie, a television show, a book. _

_ Burt glanced up at Kurt's reflection, praying the small boy wouldn't react like he always did. Maybe something had changed. _

_ But of course, Kurt's eyes filled with wonder as they passed the boy, the same wonder that filled his eyes when music played or when his mother smiled at him. _

_ Burt tried to ignore what was happening. _

Kurt picked absently at the food on his plate. He had prepared himself because his father was hopeless when it came to anything in the culinary category. Without Kurt, the two of them would've starved after his mother died. But even though he had made it, the food didn't seem appealing. It never seemed appealing.

His dad was a completely different story, "Wow, kid, this is good." Burt said a few words in between bites, others not so much.

Kurt nodded his thanks as he took a hesitant bite of the chicken. It was bitter as it hit his taste buds, going down his throat like a pebble. Kurt swallowed mechanically, as if on auto-pilot, and plowed through the first course. His lips felt dry and wrong, but that probably because they were.

"So, how were piano lessons?"

"She cancelled." Kurt murmured. He kept his eyes on his fork because he was sure the lie would be evident in his irises.

Burt seemed to believe him.

Kurt couldn't go to his piano lesson. In order to get there, he'd have to cross the Woodhull Bridge. That stupid caged boy's eyes were still fresh in Kurt's memory, and he was sure vise-versa would apply. Not to mention the fact football practice wasn't over until eight, and Kurt had no intention of passing the field during that time frame. He hadn't been to a piano lesson for five years.

"Alright that's okay. Do you have any homework?"

Kurt knew the conversation was forced. His dad was trying, at least. He knew he was lucky to have a dad like Burt. The problem was, Kurt didn't deserve Burt.

"No, I finished it at school."

"Here, you don't have enough dirt on your face," Burt reached for Kurt's chin, wiping some of the grime of his overalls and smearing it on the designated area. Kurt was about to thank him without really meaning it at all, but the doorbell rang.

He'd have been grateful for any other distraction, but the doorbell was an exception. Kurt and Burt shared a tense moment, attempting to discreetly avoid each other's eye, while Burt awkwardly removed his hands from Kurt's face. Kurt knew his father was waiting for him to go open the door, but he'd never be able to. Kurt could feel his legs freeze up in the chair. With each millisecond that entered the Hummel kitchen, leaving as fast as it came, the air got thicker and thicker with anticipation. All Kurt did was shovel the fork into his mouth, wishing these moments would evaporate into the normalcy they had once been swimming in.

The sigh that escaped Burt's lungs as he got up from his chair had been repeating many times in this room. The first though was the worst possible day for the sigh to make its presence in the household.

Kurt wanted to glare at Burt, tell him that he did hear the doorbell this time. Kurt wanted to stand up and wipe to dirt from his face and see what Burt had to say about that. But that was a different Kurt, a Kurt with courage.

Each secret that had been nested in Kurt's heart began to flow upwards to his throat. Kurt was forced to swallow them down with his chicken.

Burt walked over to greet whoever had come to the door.

The leeches were suddenly attacking Kurt's skin like they were feasting. The feeding frenzy had begun. A buildup in his chest constricted his lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe evenly. The only way to push the pulsing anxiety in his chest was to tap his fingers wildly on the table. The tension was still there, but was inking out his fingertips like a pen.

Loud gulps of air filled Kurt's body. He closed his eyes, wondering for a terse moment what it'd be like to let it all out.

Kurt abandoned his plate in the sink, and returned to the solitary safeness of his own room.

**...**

School loomed overhead, dark and cold like one of the biggest leeches should be. He tried to not think about the mass of students that lurked in the nooks and crannies of William McKinley High. Focusing on the rhythmic tap of his mismatched tennis shoes on the pavement was better than focusing on the terror that enveloped his entire being, heavy and wet on his chest like drenched clothing.

He lifted his feet one after the other, trying his best to stare at them as he crossed the Woodhull Bridge. With unevenly clipping fingernails he clawed at the jacket over his shoulders, wiping it away with perspiration from the blistering heat.

The weather in Lima had been having drastic mood swings lately. Kurt tried not to think about how hard it'd be for the Caged Boy to be outside in each climate as he passed the boy.

The Caged Boy just stared at the cup of murky substances in his cup, almost completely oblivious to the world revolving outside of the cage bars. Kurt didn't notice the way the boy's eyes were large and afraid, but if he had, he would've recognized each shade of green and gold in them.

When the Caged Boy looked up, so suddenly Kurt hardly realized it had happened at all, the two of them locked eyes for a moment Kurt wasn't sure if he had enjoyed or disliked. It was then that the warm tones of the Boy's skin and eyes and hair were twirling in Kurt's mind like ribbons.

Kurt walked faster down the path, biting back bubbles of lies and secrets resting on the edge of his voice box. He wasn't supposed to admire things about the Caged Boy. He was supposed to despise the Caged People, fear the odd diseases they can develop, believe that Caged People are nothing humanly of the sort.

It was then that Kurt realized the plaque by the cage still said Blaine. But then again, why would it say anything different then what had always been there?

Kurt kept up his fast pace, trying to get farther and farther away from the cage that was like ipecac to the secrets in his throat.

He was trapped. Forward was school, backwards was the Caged Boy. Neither would help him, no matter how much he wished the latter would.

When Kurt was younger, the walk to school would take forever. He would be able to see so many people, more people than he'd ever seen at one time. Now, the trip was shorter. He savored the moments of solitude he wouldn't receive in a school full of people.

Because the distance between his home and the school was so seemingly short, Kurt arrived at school much sooner than he would have preferred. Actually, it would have been better to have not gone at all.

Kurt knew that as the day passed, he'd catch himself thinking about Blai- _The Caged Boy- _much too often. Because he already had, and at this rate, there was no telling how many times those soft eyes would rattle around in his conscience. He sucked in a gulp of air that filled his lungs, sighing it out with a testy glance at the sky.

He wondered when all these secrets and words and phrases wouldn't choke his throat every moment. Kurt was tired of them, but there was really nothing that could be done. In all honesty, he was getting pretty good at keeping them. He had been since he was eight. But now the Caged Boy had uprooted them all, sending them up the windpipe and straight through Kurt's mouth. He could feel the time running out. He couldn't hold everything in much longer, especially not the huge secret he was headed for right now.

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I would really appreciate some reviews... This story has been in my head for quite some time now. I really hope there isn't too much plot. It may seem a little confusing right now, but it will make sense later. Again, I'd LOVE some reviews!**

** -andwho**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: I forgot to mention, but don't get mad at me for my portrayal of Karofsky. He's a confused guy who makes some mistakes, not a horrible person. You'll see... just, don't get angry. He's **_**not**_** a bad guy. **

_Burt felt a little queasy. Leaving your wife and child alone, especially in their situation, was always mind boggling. You never know when someone is going to come to the door. You never know _who _is going to come to the door. _

_ He held on to the leather steering wheel, tight enough that white splotches blossomed along his fingers. The feeling distracted him from the panic in his chest. _

_ His phone rang, Burt reaching in his pocket to retrieve it. _

_ "Hello?" He answered gruffly, trying to flex his fingers while holding the cell phone. _

_ "Hey, honey," Elizabeth's voice murmured through the phone. "I had a feeling you were a nervous wreck." _

_ Burt held the device in place with his ear and loosened the collar on his overalls, using the opposite hand to drive. It was a little ridiculous how sweaty he was now, considering the mild temperature outside the car window. _

_ "Yeah," Burt sighed. Of course she knew. "How're you doing?" _

_ "Burt, you leave Kurt and I home alone every day now. You've been leaving us home alone for eight years. Your wife and child are perfectly safe and able to defend themselves." Elizabeth consoled, probably fixing breakfast for Kurt when the pale, small little boy finally rolled out of bed. _

_ "Alright, alright," Burt said, "But be safe. If you hear the doorbell-,"_

_ "I know what to do, honey. You just go to work." She told him._

_ "Okay, I will. Bye, Lizzie." _

_ "Goodbye, Burt." _

_ Burt didn't realize in that moment how that goodbye, was her last. _

**...**

For two whole days, famous poet Edgar Allen Poe went missing. On October 3, 1849 he was found by a man named Joseph W. Walker, who just chanced to be walking down the streets of Baltimore when Poe needed him. Edgar was in torpor, delirious and drunk with terror. No one knows for sure what really happened to him, but it is highly understandable to assume Edgar Allen Poe had quite a few leaches in his life as well. When Joseph hurried to get Edgar into Washington College Hospital, the poet repeated the word "Reynolds" over and over, almost like a dying mantra, from inside his hospital room. All along the halls, the words could be heard. Right before he died, Edgar lifted his head to utter his final sentence. "Lord help my soul," left his lips along with his last breath.

Currently, Kurt Hummel felt like he was Edgar Allen Poe on October third and October second of 1849 because this incident would always remain a mystery to all but Karofsky and himself. Karofsky's callused, football-worn hand slid up his shirt, gripping the trembling flesh with all too much force. This was those two days, and he understood completely why Edgar Allen Poe would seek some type of help from the hierarchy, why his soul would be damaged, why he couldn't bear to say anything but Reynolds. Maybe Reynolds was like "she cancelled" or "Yes, I went to piano lessons".

Karofsky's eyes were dark, scared. They looked like Kurt's did when he gazed in the mirror the first time his refection had a broken nose. They looked like Burt's did when Burt saw this reflection. They looked like his mother's when she thought her boy was going to be one of them. They looked like that of a certain curly haired boy who'd been chosen as Caged. Karofsky's eyes were terrified, two pupils holding onto their irises like a lifejacket.

"You tell anyone about what happened," Karofsky leaned in so close Kurt felt the boy's erratic heart, beating fast in his chest, "And I will kill, goddammit." Karofsky whispered it, hoarse. He let go of Kurt, leaving bruises and red marks along Kurt's ghostly skin.

Kurt nodded feverishly in response to Karofsky's threat, the larger boy now retreating towards the locker room door. He had to unlock it before existing, of course. Kurt didn't even want to try to imagine the consequences if someone had walked in around this time last week.

Eyes closed, Kurt wished he was standing on the Woodhull Bridge; or flinging himself off of it, rather.

...

Kurt's ears buzzed against the silence of the school playground. He had sat on this bench before. The thing itself made him feel a little nostalgic, to be honest. Kurt missed the times when sitting on his bench and playing with dolls was enough to forget about the bullies at school. Now, there was so much he needed to push at the back of his mind, that there was no room anymore. His head was unbalanced, weighed downwards by the horrible skeletons that inhabited it.

His mom. Karofsky. Piano lessons. The caged people. Government searchers. Blaine.

Kurt lifted his eyes to the gray sky above, turning darker each minute. The night was creping in fast like a swarm of bees, like the anxiety that grew in the cavern deep in the crevices and cracks of his metaphorical heart.

Kurt cringed when his back hit the bench in the worst of ways, stinging the blue bruise- probably purple by now- that had been planted there in situations he'd like to not think about. But of course the memories slipped themselves into Kurt's frontal lobe.

Kurt closed his eyes, the buzzing in his ears escalading into a loud ringing. He could feel hands on his hips. He didn't dare think about hands anywhere lower. Fortunately, he didn't have too because that hadn't happened yet, but that didn't mean it wouldn't.

The memories stung his mind. They were a knife, digging into his brain. The headaches were becoming unbearable.

Kurt stood up, the cracks of his achy joints echoing in the deserted park. Cool air that whispered its way through the leaves of the trees ghosted across Kurt's skin. He shivered, wishing his clothes weren't so torn so he could wrap them tighter around his arms. Goosebumps trailed along his forearms, like balloons inflating on his skin. His body shook under his lightweight jacket.

With each footstep, Kurt became weary of the watch on his wrist. His curfew was eleven thirty, and it was almost eleven. At this rate, he'd never make it home in time. He tried to care about that, but the livid bruises on his back made him believe otherwise.

His breath came out in shuddered huffs, turning into a vapor as it left his lips. He could see the Woodhull Bridge overhead, the Cage resting at the very end of it. Inside, he could just make out the outline of a boy. Kurt filled his lungs with as much oxygen that was humanly possible and took a few confident steps towards the cage.

He past it with ease, sliding away from the object without even glancing at Blai- _the caged boy. _

He walked along the bridge, ignoring the loud clap that reverberated from his footsteps and bounced in the empty air.

The claps sounded a lot like people being thrown against lockers. Or one person, at least.

He finally managed to climb up the rickety steps that led to his home. Terrified, he opened the door. The lights and television were on, which meant Burt had been up waiting for him. Kurt tried to swallow the anxiety, but to no avail, for there was still a lump near his uvula that set his teeth on edge.

"Dad?" He called hesitantly, "I'm home, Dad." He said once more, as if he needed to clarify.

His father was sitting in the living room chair, holding a beer in one hand and turning off the television with the necessary remote in the other. He breathed in a few times, his eyes sealing closed like the gate of a moat.

"Kurt, do you know what I was watching?" He asked resignedly.

"No." Kurt whispered, even though he was fairly certain what it was.

"The news, Kurt," He nearly growled, gripping the remote like it was his only way to not physically injure something, "I was watching the news because I thought they'd taken you, Kurt!"

He should've known this would happen. "Mrs. Long wanted to run a few scales." Kurt croaked out the lie, the _Reynolds_. He might as well. They were starting to pile up.

"At nine at ten at night, Kurt?" Burt narrowed his eyes.

"I went to library after," _Actually, I stayed after school to finish homework. _"And I started reading this really great book," _No, Karofsky found me. _"So I couldn't put it down," _And hit me and put his hands up my shirt and said he'd kill me if I told anyone about last week. That's why my shirt has three tears instead of two, Dad. _"And I just lost track of time." _So I walked all the way to my old elementary school and sat in the playground for an hour. _

"Alright," Burt sighed, "You just- God, I worry."

_"_Don't worry so much," _You could never worry enough. _"I'm fine." _I'm not. _

"I'm sorry I got angry."

"It's okay."

**...**

The next morning was that of a Saturday. This obviously made Kurt feel better. He wouldn't have to see the school, Karofsky, the Woodhull Bridge (or what marked its end). Kurt was a free man today.

He sat up with much more gusto than he had 24 hours ago. Today was a little brighter than he had remembered, the sun shining with more forcefulness. There wasn't a definite reason as to why Kurt felt better. Maybe it was the good eight hours of sleep. Or perhaps the warm feeling in his diaphragm had something to do with the spectacular dream he had last night. Kurt loved dreams that matched up with the reality you wished you had.

His head floated back onto his pillow with a soft thump, emitting a creak from deep within the box spring. The covers seemed to migrate up to his. The sun slipped through the patterned blinds on his windowsill; much like the light that cast down from the clouds. Today felt like a hello or a beginning.

Eventually, Kurt did decide to take each second of this day and spend them wisely.

He slipped out from underneath the warmth of his blankets, closing his eyes and wishing for a moment he could smell pancakes downstairs. His ears strained to hear his mother's careful humming from the kitchen. Kurt may not remember if she crossed her legs or not. He may not be able to quote what she said to him after he ran out headfirst into the street. These are things we forget when people die. But he'll never forget mornings. If only he'd appreciated them as much as he did now.

In the bathroom, Kurt avoided the mirror completely and jumped into the beams of water spouting from the shower head.

Because people's mothers die and leave their children with too much responsibility, Kurt made breakfast for himself and Burt. He decided to make eggs and turkey bacon, a healthy substitute for legitimate bacon that would've come from a chemically pumped steroid super pig. Eating healthy wasn't exactly mainstream, or acceptable for that matter, but it Burt would hardly be able to tell the difference between_ bacon_ bacon and turkey bacon.

No matter how time-consuming, Kurt really did enjoy cooking. A skillet and some ingredients gave Kurt a type of happiness, a hobby. As he cracked the eggs mindlessly after have mastering the skill, Kurt let his attention wander past Ohio and its customs.

There was one place that didn't have crazy rules and cages, and that place was New York. People hardly discussed New York here. The state was considered taboo. That didn't stop Kurt from peering out the window and wondering exactly what it'd be like to wear whatever he wanted or to not be surrounded by government searchers at school.

Several booming stomps came from the stairwell's general vicinity, indicating that Kurt's dad had just woken up and was storming down the stairs to get to work on time.

Pulling on the right strap of his overalls, Burt hurriedly grabbed the Tupperware container Kurt handed his way.

"Thanks bud," Burt wheezed as he hurriedly searched for his keys, "But you didn't have to make breakfast."

Actually, he did.

"Oh, it's no problem." Kurt said a little airily, still staring out into the bright day.

"Well, uh, you have fun today." Burt said, hand perched on the doorknob.

Kurt turned to face his father after pulling his intent stare away from the world behind the window's glass. He blinked for just a millisecond before replying, "Sure thing. I might go down to the River Walk."

"Alright, I'll see you later." Burt nodded awkwardly, hustling out of the door.

Kurt ate breakfast quickly, leaving about half of it in the fridge for left overs for tomorrow's morning meal. The cool breeze from the refrigerator reminded him of the smoldering temperatures outside, so he grabbed a few water bottles.

The closet door's hinges wailed like a teapot kettle when Kurt managed to pry it open. After rummaging through an assortment of fallen coats and mismatched socks, he found his beaten up tennis shoes. He hadn't worn them since Monday, but they'd still somehow gotten mixed up in the mess of his room.

Another thing Kurt wished he had: a clean room. But his dad checked every week to make sure there was still disorder in Kurt's only solitary place in the house. One would think Kurt would be able to choose the state of his room, but he wasn't really able to choose what clothes he wore either. Or his appearance.

Kurt tugged on his dirtied backpack and left the house. The grass slipped in between his feet and peeped through the holes in his shoes.

He realized that this exercise would contribute to his lean frame, or the only thing he could really control. With Burt making sure his clothes and his room and his face and his hair and his _everything _looked horrendous and safe, Kurt could keep just one thing to himself. His weight. He felt like it was sacred, divine. The one thing that could be anything Kurt wanted it to.

Reed Road passed quickly, for Kurt lived on the very edge of the shanty road. And soon, Kurt was walking along Buckeye Road. It was a little unnerving to turn left instead of right onto the Woodhull Bridge. He shuddered a little when he thought about where that would lead him. He gulped down the jagged words trying to rip their way up his throat, the leaches. Today was not for them, it was his day. He could feel it.

When Kurt jogged, he felt like he'd always imagined New York City to be. He gasped for each breath, his lugs on fire. Feet slapping against the pavement, running faster towards the finish line, NYC, his home; he'd know he belonged there as soon as the law had passed.

He knew it was useless, but hoping for a similar law in Lima was all Kurt could really do to keep his patience. He could hardly wait for the big city.

Soon, Kurt had become a breathless mess. He didn't run much, except for the occasional run from school to hop onto the ledge of a bridge.

**...**

Kurt realized that, standing in from of the Lima YMCA, perhaps he run a little too far. Panting, he sat down by the bushes surrounding the centerpiece flagpole like the outer ring of a dartboard. The backpack that contained only two of the five water bottles Kurt had packed earlier suddenly ached his back, becoming more and more unbelievably painful. He set the bag beside him. Kurt's shoulders seemed to float upwards without their anchor.

Kurt knew he'd never be able to walk all the way back home. He fished around in his backpack for the wad of cash he'd thrown in previously, hoping it'd be enough for a bus fare. Luckily, it was.

The bus stop was just a park bench, accompanied by a sign that said "Bus Stop" for obvious reasons. He pinched the money tightly in his fingers, gossamer like the twines of a spider web. The air was neutral, as was the light. His face was surely flushed, rather than pallid like usual when he was indoors. This was a contributing factor to Kurt's constant reclusion.

When the bus finally pulled up to its designated spot, Kurt filed in along with various other members of the Lima citizenship. He only vaguely recognized one short, stocky woman who had yellowing teeth and a receding hairline. Her daughter used to feed the fish at Lake Lima, where Burt tried to catch the fish. He tried not to look at her. She tried not to look at him. The whole town knew who'd suffered the many deaths that occurred around Kurt's childhood; the Lopez family, the Green family, the Puckerman family, the Johnson family, the Hudson family. There were countless others, of course.

He placed his forehead on the cool window. Kurt was certain it'd leave an indentation, but he was too tired to really care. Instead, he watched the kaleidoscope of trees and buildings flickering past his window.

Kurt calculated the time. He'd arrive on Reed Road around one 'o clock, which should allow him enough time to make his Dad's lunch. Burt would get home at two, given he was working part time today. This was highly likely.

As it turns out, Burt was in fact working the part-time shift and did arrive home at two. Kurt had made them sub sandwiches, opting to use light condiments instead the regular kinds. He felt a little guilty about lying to his father, but still found solace in knowing what he'd be eating.

The two of them sat down at the dinner table, eating the sub sandwiches in silence. Sometimes, Kurt wished the two of them could talk freely about anything he desired, but there was the stupid mirror and its stupid reflection, the stupid doorbell, the stupid phone, the stupid piano teacher that made everything a possible awkward confrontation.

Burt would turn the TV on as to fill in the massive gaps where the only sound was the food being chewed inside their mouths. So at least there was that.

When conversation was made, it was usually things that did not require an actual, emotional answer, such as "How was your day?" To which Kurt would reply, "Fine"

Mealtimes were never pleasant. Most interactions with his dad weren't really pleasant, even. Kurt hardly found comfort in his dad's presence. It was difficult to enjoy someone's company if they were constantly breathing down your neck about one thing or the other.

Kurt ate his sandwich with full intent to somehow burn the calories later. Maybe he'd tell his dad he had an emergency meeting with his English partner. And English partner who had moved to Thurston three months ago, but Kurt wasn't about to Burt. English partners were the least of Kurt's worries.

Burt, wolfing down his second sub, suddenly dropped his food and cursed. "I forgot to buy some more waters for the shop," He hissed, "Joe'll eat me alive if I don't bring 'em tomorrow."

Kurt glanced up hesitantly, "Are you going to go to the grocery story?"

Burt nodded, "Yeah, I'll be back in a little while," He left the house. Kurt not stopping him, of course. But then again, how would he have known that the worst possible thing could've happened while Burt was at the store?

Kurt cleaned his plate and started to clean the kitchen. His toe brushed against the crack in the tile just before the fridge. He winced, but not because it had hurt his toe.

_Burt hurriedly scribbled down the man's order. Oil, bumper, what was the third thing? He nervously rubbed at the back of his neck, sweat dripping down his back in streams. _

_ "Yes, thank you," He mumbled into the phone. Resting his head on the counter, Burt breathed in a few calming breaths of air. His eyes were red and bloodshot, no doubt. _

_ The rest was short lived, however, because the phone rang once again. Nearly smashing the thing in the place he once rested, Burt reached for it. His had flickered like the tip of a candle, but eventually he picked up the receiver and placed it on his mouth. _

_"Hello?" He was a little frustrated. Actually, he was beyond frustrated. Because, Jesus, why couldn't he have a moment's rest? Burt spent each and every minute working and working. Those men were out there looking for kids to lock up in a cage for life; men he was sure would pluck his son straight out of Burt's life. The one before had died. He'd been so hungry they had to find another one, someone else who didn't deserve it. Honestly, he could escape them once, but twice? _

_ No matter how angry Burt was, it all snapped when he heard the small, quivering voice on the telephone whisper, "Daddy?" _

The rain tapped rhythmic beats onto the roof. The trees outside looked more like people rooted to the ground, being tugged to the east by the roaring wind. Thunder shook the walls, rattling the pictures tacked the walls. In the darkness, lighting filled the room with a sharp crackle of light. Kurt shivered and wrapped a blanket tighter around his shoulders.

He wondered how such a bright sunny day could turn to be gloomy and dark.

Kurt swallowed hard, feeling something sharp and jagged rise through his throat. It felt hard, terrifying, isolating. He wondered what it could be. Closing his eyes, Kurt decided there was something wrong with him. Something big.

The lighting entering the room like a whip tore him from his thoughts.

His hands shook from underneath the blanket. Kurt gripped onto the fabric like Reynolds.

His dad had been gone for seven hours, a long time to be at the supermarket. Kurt was afraid. He always was.

Lips trembling, Kurt let out a sharp breath.

The doorknob turned, along with the clap of thunder that almost shook the couch. Burt walked it, soaking with rainwater and acrid with the scent of alcohol. Kurt felt his life curve inwards on itself, like an inner tube or a child. Lurching forward, his memories and his thoughts and his wants combusted like a popping balloon. Leaches sucked on them, feasted on Kurt's last drop of content.

He'd been buttered up, fattened. This morning wasn't a beginning, it was an end.

Burt stepped in, slamming the door behind him. Kurt brought his hand to his nose subconsciously.

"Guess who I ran into today?" Burt asked slowly, narrowing his eyes just slightly, Chelsea Long, your piano teacher."

And then the lightning filled the house once more.

**Author's Note: Well, there you have it! I hope everyone liked this chapter! I think it's a little forced... but... oh well. Tell me what you think in a review! A lot of the street names, River Walk, parks, places, etc. are real and in Lima. Woodhull Bridge and Pierpont Street are not, however. This is for a reason. Again, tell me what you think in a review! The map I used to figure out where Kurt ran and such is available on my profile. :) Again, don't get angry about Karofsky. He's not that bad of guy, you'll see. Also, if you found any mistakes, be sure to let me know. I didn't edit this chapter as thoroughly as the last one. Thanks!**

** -andwho**


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